


A Multitude of the Heavenly Host

by Tammany



Series: The Sussex Downs [16]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Freestanding, Gabriel is a prat, Gen, Sussex Downs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 13:17:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20528657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: I thought I was done with fic for the day. Then this descended on me, and I liked it far too much not to scamper around typing frantically so I would not lose the idea.I'm going to let it take an actual number in the "Sussex Downs" series, but it's kind of the red-haired orphan child: I never thought of it as part of the arcs, and I don't know if I *really* want it to be canon or not. But this is THE AU it belongs to: I have no other place for it, and it longs to be where it is. So. It either happened, or it's an AU of an AU.In which it is established that Gabriel is a total prat. But a notable clothes horse.





	A Multitude of the Heavenly Host

They materialized in the sky, wings spread and fanning, sun shining on every perfect, gleaming detail: the white feathers, the gold trumpets, the fluttering banners that hung in the sky around them without mortal or angelic support. The accompanying cherubim fluttering around arse-naked and giggling. With them came fanfares played on the trumpets, and bronzen shouts of “Fear Not,” and entire storms of rose petals rained down on Aziraphale and Crowley’s “cottage” above the Sussex seaside.

Next door the entire household turned out to stare and goggle.

“Sonofabitch,” Lestrade muttered to his lover, “Aren’t you glad that’s not Russian diplomats in London traffic at lunch time?”

Mycroft raised one fine brow, and said, tartly, “Ah, but it’s no less politics, I suspect.” He took out his smart phone and texted Crowley, who was standing out of sight on the terrace of the neighboring property. Crowley read the message, and elbowed Aziraphale, who was scowling up in the heavens and muttering about what the breeze of flights of flapping angels was doing to his hair—not to mention the garden. He took the phone and read it in turn.

“How civil,” he shouted at Crowley. “Shall we accept?”

“Your call, Angel. But he’s supposed to be good at what he does.”

“Then yes,” Aziraphale said, and responded quickly before handing Crowley back his phone.

Mycroft, getting the response, turned to Lestrade. “Quick-quick, dear, we’re getting changed into our city togs. John? Janine? Sherlock? Did you lot of lay-abouts bring anything fit to play political bottom-feeder? If so, hurry and change. Rosie, my dear, can you play flower girl? Use one of the beach baskets and dump the towels and strip the rose bush up at the top of the stairs down to the house. That’s my dear. No—don’t change. Your shining face and gobs of roses will be sufficient, I think.”

And so they scurried around, and reassembled quickly, having heard the start of a sullen debate between one of the angels in the sky and the demon on the terrace below.

“I do not consort with demons,” said the sky-borne one, her every tone declaring profound affront.

“Not wi’ me you don’t, sunshine,” Crowley snapped back. “Already taken, thanks. Find your own demon.”

“As if.” The angel’s tones turned from grandiose to street-smart and tough, a chip on her shoulder. “I can’t imagine what he sees in you.”

“And I’m not about to demonstrate, love. Now, either ask to come down nicely, or you and your lot can bugger off. This is Aziraphale’s domain, and you don’t have permission to enter.”

In the background a large male angel whined, “What is this? I’ve gone into the little traitor’s store easily enough before. Why can’t we just land, Uriel?”

The earlier angel called, “Sorry, my lord. Working it out, my lord. I think the problem may have been that it was a store, sir, and open to the public at the time. This place is different, and it appears to be, well, _secured_ against us, sir.”

Mycroft, looking his elegant best in his pinstripe bespoke with his Italian shoes and a neat pocket square, gathered his entourage with his eyes. They’d be less than he’d have preferred back in London—but as improvisational courtiers they’d do. He took Rosie’s hand, whispered, “Just toss a flower out every so often—and if the angels land, try to smack at least one with a good thorny one,” and then stepped out boldly, walking along the public access path, then up the hill, through the hedge, past the pool, and up to the terrace above, where he bowed his very best bow to Crowley and said, “Permission requested to enter, my Lord Crowley.”

Crowley, dressed in his usual informal slink and slithery black, grinned an evil grin, swallowing laughter. He proceeded to offer a Very High Elizabethan Bow Indeed, complete with extended leg and flowery arm gestures—a movement marred only by being bopped fondly over the head by Rosie, who hit him with one of the longer sprays of roses in a “knighting” gesture, in admiration of his fine manners. Straightening, he winked at Mycroft, and pronounced, “Good my Lord Mycroft, I greet you gladly, and wish you all pleasure of our home and haven. Do come in.”

Mycroft tipped him a prim and contented nod, and swept forward to stand before Aziraphale—his entourage scuttling behind him awkwardly, but with good will. “My thanks, my Lord Crowley. And you, your Divine Highness Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale clapped his hands in amused glee. “Oh, it’s been forever since anyone “Highnessed” me! One almost manages to forget one’s Princely rank, sometimes, in all the modern informality. Come here, Rosie love, do! What have you there? Ah—lovely. No, you’ll have to ask Uncle Crowley what kind of roses they are, I’d only know if I researched them, and I suspect he can tell you right off, my dear. But I can miracle some more on your Uncle Mycroft’s bush to make up for those you’ve cut. Now, My Lord Mycroft—if you’d be so kind, might I request and require you to serve as my House Steward this day, and save us the questionable possibility of Crowley serving in that role?”

“As you wish, your Highness,” Mycroft said, with a very fine bow of his own—if far more restrained in its type than Crowley’s had been.

“Then I do declare you the right and glorious steward of the domain of Aziraphale, Principality of Earth,” the angel said, eyes suddenly sparking a very warrior-like ferocity. And, more quietly, “Have at them, my dear, and show no mercy. They’re a nasty lot, and here to make trouble in paradise.”

“Oi,” Crowley said. “Trouble in Paradise is my job! Send them off, Mike—we don’t want ‘em.”

“Can I let them land first, or should I see them on their way?”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged glances. Aziraphale said, after cautious thought, “Let Gabriel down. But make him come alone. And—just for giggles and grins? Rub it in that a Principality outranks an Archangel?”

“I think I can manage as much,” Mycroft said, and turned on his toes, marching to the rail of the veranda. He spoke up, then, voice carrying well without having to shout.

“Good my angels all, I greet you in the name of Aziraphale, Principality of Earth. I am bid summon the emissary Gabriel come into the presence of his Highness, to present his petition to the Guardian of Earth.”

The rustling of wings above was sufficient to blow a number of seagulls off course. Uriel, the first angel, huffed and growled. Michael could be heard muttering advice into her leader’s ear. The attendant host all muttered and whispered among themselves, and the cherubim darted as near as possible to Rosie, waving at her and tossing white roses they seemed to pull from the very air, to amuse her and add to her basket.

After a moment Gabriel was heard to say, “Oh, very well. I suppose I must. But I’m not calling him ‘Your Highness.’”

Michael reproved him, hissing under her breath. Gabriel said, “But I am a fucking Archangel, Mickey!”

She smacked him on the arm, hard, and hissed some more. He rubbed his arm with a wounded expression, and pouted, but at last gave in, and descended to the veranda, disappearing his wings as his exquisitely shod toes touched the slate pavers.

“I, the Archangel Gabriel, do greet your Highness in the name of Heaven. Oh. And you, too, foul demon. There. Are you satisfied?”

Aziraphale considered, but before he could cave in, Mycroft cleared his throat, and said, “Consort, my good man. At the very least you have to call him ‘foul Consort.’ And I assure you, ‘Count Crowley, Consort and Rebel Demon Ex-Infernalis; Defensor Hominum,’ would go over a treat, compared to your choice.”

Gabriel stared at the pitiful human standing between him and his rightful prey. “You don’t say?” he drawled. “And you are?”

“I hold a minor position in the government,” Mycroft said, with a smirk that suggested he was nothing so minor in the least. “I have the occasional honor of serving those in charge.”

Sherlock, tall and hovering in the back of the clump of new-minted courtiers, sniggered. Janine jabbed him in the side with her elbow as John stepped sharply backward and stomped his toes. Lestrade merely smiled a rice-pudding smile, and kept schtum.

Gabriel sputtered. “You’re not in Heaven’s books.”

Mycroft, as vanilla-faced as his spouse, said softly, “Heaven’s books—or God’s? You know—the ineffable ones?”

Gabriel scowled and turned pale. “You humans are all a dirty lot of cheaters,” he grumbled. “You’re supposed to be dead, now. Or being dragged to your respective destinations, screaming. Or, I suppose, rapturing—though I always assumed there would be few enough going up to make quick work of it.”

“Indeed, sir. Well. Live and learn,” Mcyroft said, leaving it quite uncertain whether he was the one living and learning—or whether it was Gabriel getting the “schooling.” “As you say, sir. In the meantime, might I know your purpose to announce to his Divine Highness Aziraphale?”

Gabriel huffed, and puffed, and entirely failed to blow anyone’s house in, much less make like a dragon and blow fire the way Crowley had in the Hellfire column. “If you must know,” he said, “I’m here to parlay.”

“Indeed? Regarding what?”

“End times, smarty. As if you’d care.”

“I do care, actually,” Mycroft said, voice bland. “One rather prefers Earth to continue—Earth and all the kingdoms and dominions thereof. And all that jazz. But I shall make the announcement to Aziraphale, your host.” At which he turned and said, in the laziest drawl he could manage. “Archangel, your Highness. Here to beg for Armageddon, your Highness. Wants to parlay. Shall you talk—or shall I show him the sky and suggest he scarper?”

Crowley was far too obvious in holding back a choked laugh. Aziraphale managed better, saying ,”Oh, my. Ask him if he’s had words with God yet. I see no reason to parlay until we’ve heard from Her Divine Self.”

Mycroft bowed, turned back, and said, eyes sparkling, “And have you been instructed in your mission by The Lord God, She Who Cannot Be Named, the Faceless, the Immutable, the Ineffable Creator of Earth and All that Pertains Thereto?”

Gabriel outright pouted, and the angelic host hovering in the faint mist over the ocean murmured together. If nothing else their more-or-less human bodies were getting cold in the damp and the wind off the ocean. Those most lightly dressed were grabbing hanks of the miraculously hung banners and draping them around their shoulders, which interfered with their flight feathers and gave them a peculiar look—half modern, half Classical.

“One does not speak with The Lord,” he grumbled. “I’ve had a word with Metatron.”

Aziraphale snorted, and said quite audibly, in a very stagey “under his breath,” “Well. Metatron. Who hasn’t spoken with Metatron—the old codger. But—has he spoken with God?”

“He’s God’s voice,” Gabriel protested.

“Yes, and you’re God’s trumpeter,” Crowley snapped, unable to refrain. “But I’ll lay long odds you’ve no more taken a request from her than Louis Armstrong did—and I’d actually give Louis better odds.”

“And Coltrane,” murmured Lestrade. “I mean—‘A Love Supreme?’ Now that’s an argument for direct divine inspiration…”

Gabriel frowned, confused. “What? What? What are you on about demon?”

“Count Demon, Consort, to you, Gabe,” Crowley said, grinning a wicked grin. “And, really—have you said anything to Herself? Or more to the point, has She said anything to you?”

“Erm…” He cringed. “We’ve had some difficulty confirming Her wishes at this time. Technical difficulties, we think. A line down in the aether. Repairmen are out checking even as I speak.” What he meant was that the only sighting of God of late was one he desperately hoped was mere rumor, and nothing more.

“I saw her,” giggled one of the cherubs. “In a little blue box. She waved at me and said I was ‘brilliant.’ She sounded like She was from Yorkshire.”

“Shut it,” Gabriel snarled, and swatted at the little brat with his wing. It dodged neatly and flittered up to the rest of the Heavenly Host in the Highest, still giggling.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, willing enough to speak for himself now he knew Gabriel couldn’t cite divine support. “In that case, sir—I think you’re buggered. You see, I am the Principality of Earth.” He shrugged. “A point we all tended to overlook, I fear. I’m Principality of Earth, and it turns out that Crowley here was somehow never deleted from Heaven’s ranks. He was Defensor Hominum—then and now.”

Up in the host, a little child’s voice shouted, “She said She’d forgot to write it down back in the day, but that She’d fix that then, and it would be all right now. Then She said something about ‘timey-wimey,’ and flew off. She had such a pretty blue coat…”

Gabriel shot a vile glare up into the heavens, and turned back to Aziraphale. “So that means no Apocalypse?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “What it says on the tin: Prince of Earth, Guardian of God’s Garden. And Defender of Humankind. It’s a job—but there it is. Ineffable and all that.”

Gabriel snarled under his breath. “You’ll regret this, angel.”

“Principality,” Crowley corrected him. “Angel to his _friends._ You want to call him angel, well…the least you could do is take him to the Ritz or buy him sushi.”

“Are you finished, good-my-lord Gabriel?” asked Mycroft.

“You’d better be careful,” Gabriel said. “I’m a fucking Archangel. I could disappear you if I wanted.”

“You could,” Mycroft agreed, calmly. “But even archangels come to judgement, I’m told. And pride goeth before a…Fall. That’s scripture, that is.”

Gabriel blanched, swore under his breath, and took off in a mightly clap of wings, headed straight for the sun. The Heavenly Host flew off after him, trailing banners and stray trumpet tootles. (One bold trumpeter, a clear rebel in Heaven, dared play a few bars of “It’s a Wonderful World.”) Then, with a bamf, the sky was empty of all but clouds and sun and sea birds.

“My-my-my,” Aziraphale said, blinking. “That went quite well.”

“Looks like no one’s contesting you as Principality of Earth, angel,” Crowley drawled. “Seems you’ve got a fair claim to calling this your dominion.”

“It would appear I have,” said Aziraphale. “Under Her will, of course. My powers appear to be more a matter of weak oversight than direct dominion.”

“Would you want it otherwise?” Mycroft said. “Direct oversight is rather a lot of work, compared to weak stewardship.”

“You’re quite right, of course,” Aziraphale said. “One much prefers weak stewardship. You mortals can get on with mortal business, and Crowley and I can continue to apply temptations and hints to your conscience when it seems appropriate…and otherwise read books and swim and eat well.”

“And take naps,” Crowley said. “Which sounds just about right, if you ask me.” And he sloped off into the cottage, already radiating a sleepy vibe.

“I think I’ll just pop in and have a cuppa, and join him,” Aziraphale said, watching the long streak of jet-black cool pass into the shade of the house, eyes longing. “My thanks, Mycroft. You did brilliantly.”

Mycroft shooed him gently toward the plate glass doors. “Shoo! Scoot! Glad to oblige. I know you’d return the favor if Boris Johnson came to bugger up my life. Now—off with you.”

The Holmes compound natives then sauntered vaguely back to their own estate, discussing the wild novelty of angels in their personal architecture, swimming in their own local infinity, and leaving feathers stuck in the local heather and spurge. Only Sherlock trailed behind, looking into the space they’d just occupied, and said wistfully to Janine, “He dresses very well, though. I’d been wondering how to change over styles, now I’m older, without ending up looking like Mike…”

Janine studied him speculatively. “Well, I can see that. Rather a handsome chap, if all you care about is tailoring. But—not pearl grey, love. Black or charcoal or navy. Pastel shirts to match. And he does have an elegant scarf. But not pearl grey—leave that to Heaven.”

And they walked home, discussing how a man in his late thirties could affect an elegant look without appearing to be a “conservative government prat.”


End file.
